Suicide Girl and Machete Man
by ShatteredAngelWings
Summary: All Dorian wanted to do was go home after being released for the sixth time from the local mental hospital is to go and relax; too bad her dad decided to strap her into the car and drive to some stupid camp called "Crystal Lake". And too bad they ran into that serial killer in a hockey mask…wait, what? M for attempted suicide, self harm, eating disorders and adult situations
1. Chapter 1

_The Suicide Girl and the Machete Man_

_001_

IN THE DIM, I can barely make out the hands of the trees reaching to the sky, like gnarled fingers clawing for air. The road stretched out is bumpy and long, hugged by dark trees that bleed into my vision. In the driver seat, he sits, back straight, knuckles white.

I do not need to see his face to know he's angry with me still. It's the seventh time I've been to that Alcatraz and Maria has no fingernails of which to speak of.

The man driving smells like sweat and his repulsive aftershave and that rancid stench of beer. "This is for your own good," he tells me; reaching one hand out. I press my side into the door handle and feel the hot metal burn through my shirt. He sighs and pulls back.

He rubs at his eyes, red-rimmed with crying and yelling and screaming at me, and sighs. I hate his sighing. It makes me feel like I'm a terrible person. "That doesn't mean I have to like it," I reply, staring down at my arms and legs, covered with sterile medical gauze, the skin hiding under layers of pinched skin and broken stitches. The hospital bracelet glows in the light from the clock on the dash and I see my name: _Dorian Angelina Overbrook; admitted: 2/13/2009; release date: 7/13/2009_. In small letters read: _severe depression, behavioral issues, body image issues, eating disorder, self-mutilation, attempted suicide _but, really, it should say: _crazy_.

Car Man clears his throat. His jaw works and his Adam's apple bobs in the vast ocean of skin. "Maria is scared," he says in a low voice. What a parental figure this joke is.

Everyone is scared of me. I pinch my sleeves tight against my wrists and feel the ridges of the gauze. It feels scratchy-scratchy on my skin and anger weld up in my chest as he sighs. "Will you stop that god forsaken sighing?"

He slams on the breaks suddenly, swearing, and spittle flies from his mouth. In the middle of the road there's a figure, broad and impressive. It looks like a man, holding a long knife. "That guy is crazy," the man driving the car says, slapping his palm into the steering wheel. I do not flinch. Squinting in the light, I watch the man in the road stand still. Slowly, he begins to walk towards the car; his gait is slow and purposeful, his stride never faltering.

As he grows closer, the man driving lays on the horn and swears. Spittle flies from his lips and hits the windshield, trailing down like tears. I keep my gaze locked on the figure outside. He's wearing a chipped, dingy hockey mask over his face.

"That's…that's not who I think it is, is it?" asks the man driving, his eyes round. "Maybe it's a teenager wanting to spook us," he mutters, more to himself than anything as Machete Man walk closer. The air in the car crackles dangerously with fear and the driving man fumbles for the shift, ramming into _reverse. _The hockey mask man keeps walking slowly closer.

_Okay, don't panic, _I tell myself. _How the hell can you _not_ panic when there is a terrifying man wearing a hockey mask and wielding a machete is walking closer and closer? _ I watch in surprise as the engine sputters, dies and Car Man freaks out, slamming on the horn the entire time. Machete Man stops on my side, rips open the door and grabs my arm. He yanks me out abruptly and I stumble when he tries to throw me into the brush.

He turns to me, his green eyes alive with anger and slaps me across the face. Blood fills my mouth and tears blur in my eyes. All my anger and quiet hate come boiling up and I start to scream at him. "Listen here, buddy, I did _not _get dragged into hell for five months only to be driven to some camp for crazy, family-shaming kids when I get out and then get _assaulted_ by some pushy guy in a mask! I did _not _ask _you_—"My finger stabs in Car Man's direction. "—to tattle every little damn thing I do to your precious wife! You both can go _suck it_!"

Machete Man shifts, looking confused and nervous.

"And you're such a—a pansy! You can scream at me all day about what a _disgrace _my scars are yet you can't tell your little whore of a daughter, the pretty one, she isn't allowed to screw with half the damn football team!" I snarl. "I'm so sick and _tired _of being sad!" Tears rain down my face. "I'm _tired _of living! So _you—" _I stab in Machete Man's chest. "—Are actually doing me a fucking favor! I've been _trying _for years. These idiots can't get a hint!"

I laugh once.

"You're crazy!" says Car Man. "No," I say evenly, "I'm just suicidal." Machete Man lowers his weapon, grabs my arm and tugs me hard. His fingers are hot, branding bruises into my skin. I push against him, meeting his eyes. "No. Bad Machete Man!" I say firmly as if scolding a puppy that wet the carpet and his green eyes crinkle around the corners.

"Are you _laughing _at me?" I scream and, while he's distracted, I pull the machete out of his hands and swing back. Too bad my grip on it is too loose and it sails behind me with a wet crunch. Cold shock jolts through me like electricity and slowly, we both turn to the thunk.

Car Man is pinned to a tree, blood gushing from the hole in his neck and his eyes roll back into his head. I start to tremble and then all my lunch is on the ground, a thick, steaming pile of vomit and then I hit the ground, crying. "I'm a monster," I whisper.

The real horror is when gravity decides to take Car Man's body and his head stays on the tree, pinned like some sick warning. I get sick all over again and the image is burned in my retinas forever.

"Oh my God! I-Ikilledhim!"

I'm crying so hard that I don't really notice the guy behind me until something hard cracks against my head: the butt of a machete handle


	2. Chapter 2

_The Suicidal Girl and the Masked Man_

002

THE ROOM IS spinning and pitch-black when I come to. Someone's moving around, hence the rustling of clothes, moving things in the dark so thick, I can't see the finger in front my eye until I poke myself with it. Rubbing at the injury, I squint.

"Hello?" My words are swallowed whole by the darkness but the other person must've heard because the rustling stops and all I hear is breathing against plastic. "Who's there?" _What a horror movie cliché, _I think to myself as I sit up—woah, dizzy—and begin to let my hands wander over myself.

I feel for bruises, chains, and other things of a gory-horror-movie-nature. My fingers catch the edge of the gauze from the hospital and my trembling stills. Everything comes back, full-force. "Oh my god," I whisper quietly as heavy footsteps fall and then there's this click and a light comes on.

It's swinging back and forth wildly, like someone bumped it and it's like a rave, strobe light flashing. "What did I do? _WHAT DID I DO?_" I chant until I see him: big, tall, and extremely muscular. He doesn't say anything, just stands there, watching me with his green-blue eyes, framed by long eyelashes.

"Who are you?" I demand. No reply as he walks closer, strutting almost, an angry jerk to his stride. I panic and try to back up—shit, shit, it's not working! I kick my legs frantically, too scared to scream and then the big guy stops walking, staring at me.

My hair, limp and oily from the humid air, hangs in my face, making it hard to see. It really doesn't help that the light is swinging like some damned pendulum. He leans down, close enough to touch me with his hands but he just traces a line down my chest with his machete. The blade tip touches the dog tag I wear.

We sit in silence, his body, massive and strong, leaning over me and I realize he could crush me if he sat on me; he must weigh over three hundred pounds easily. He's a giant compared to me, standing well above six feet where as I stand around barely five feet.

"J-Jason?"

His head jerks up and his eyes meet mine; they look angry and I'm right about that anger as he turns and stalks away. Above me, I can hear floorboards creek. "Jaaaaason!" says a mocking voice, making me shiver as he kicks something, a huge, metal tin, at me.

It bounces off the wet wall behind me and topples onto my back, the ragged edges slicing into my skin. The pain is sharp and it blurs harshly, making me cry out as tears drip down my face. He turns off the lights and a door slams somewhere; he must've left. I maneuver under the tub; it's big enough for a guy like Jason to sit in comfortably so I feel claustrophobic inside the dark metal tin.

I'm crying to myself as I listen to loud music ring from upstairs.

* * *

_With JV_

Jason swings his machete into the boy's neck, a spray of hot blood splashing across his face, seeping past the holes in his hockey mask. The blood drips down the boy's neck, staining his fancy polo shirt as Jason sinks the knife deeper, cutting through bone and muscle.

The boy's terrified eyes meet his but he thinks to himself, _he deserves it. _The music is still playing, loud and clear, a horrible song that makes him angry. He pulls his knife from the body and watches it drop in a bloody pile to the ground, skin cold and blood seeping out of his neck, the head rolling away into some bushes.

Jason makes his way to the cabin and locates the disgusting music-maker, slamming it to pieces with his massive fists. Under him, there's that girl with cuts on her arms and legs.

He thinks of her, staring at him in surprise, not horror or disgust but _surprise_, her damp hair hanging in her face, her brown skin gleaming in the swinging beams of light, her mouth pressed in a thin line. Her posture was innocent: she was leaning back on her hands, one leg stretched out, resting with the knee inward, the other resting against the knee, closer to her body.

She was wearing a black skeleton hoodie, a grey dinosaur t-shirt, torn up jeans and ratty sneakers; her arms were covered in cuts and gauze, so were her legs. _"J-Jason?" _ She spoke with this quiet voice, like she couldn't have possibly exploded at him in the road earlier.

She had looked so angry, her cheeks red as blood, her eyes shiny with tears as she cried and let everything out of her. He remembers the fear and shock on her face as she saw Car-Man pinned to the tree, her doing; she had backed up and started screaming.

He doesn't know why he's thinking of her or if he _should _be thinking of her. He turns away from the smashed stereo and makes his way back to his tunnel, admiring the bodies that litter the ground. Tomorrow, he'd drag them to the fire pit and burn them all, burying the bones in the woods. He'd throw mulch or dirt over the ashes.

He swings down into the tavern, feeling the ground puff up dust as his feet hit it. He knows the tunnel like the terrain of Camp Crystal Lake; it's been his home for as long as he can remember. He knows every twist and turn, every branch off, every patch of roughed up stone…

The room is pitch-black when he walks in; he turns on the light and immediately notices the turned over tin he'd kicked earlier. He also sees the girl is nowhere in sight; she couldn't have escaped like that girl from 2009, could she?

Setting down his machete, he makes his way towards the bin. He yanks off the tin and stares down. She's curled up in a ball, head tucked into her chest, just like a cat, curled almost protectively.

_Good girl. _

* * *

_Dorian_

Half awake, I'm aware of the tub being lifted. I bury my face deeper into my chest as a rough hand strokes the hair away from my face.

I slip back under.

In the morning, I'm woken to the screaming of teenagers.


End file.
